The Hunter Page 0,55

it, but now it burst on her with the force of absolute certainty. There was no way to deny it.

Oh, my God, he was a sorcerer.

Her mother's father had been a sorcerer.

Don't think about it... don't remember, the voice in her mind whispered. Nobody can make you remember. Stay safe behind your walls, or else ...

It was going to be very bad from here on, she realized.

She had to remember-for Tom. But Tom's image eluded her. So much had happened since she'd seen him last night-could it only be last night? She'd changed so much since then. She tried to conjure up his rakish smile in her mind, his green-flecked eyes, but the picture she got was like a distant, faded photograph. Somebody she'd known long ago.

God, I can't get any feeling for him.

Her palms were tingling. Her stomach felt sick.

I still have to remember. For Dee. For Zach. For Audrey and Michael-and Summer. Yes. For Summer.

All the others had faced their nightmares. Even Summer had tried. Pictures skittered through Jenny's mind: Dee thrashing like an animal; Audrey huddled and moaning; Michael screaming; Summer's blue-white lips; Zach's glazed gray eyes. They'd all been terrified out of their wits. Was Jenny's nightmare any worse than theirs?

Yes, I think so, the little voice in her mind whispered, but Jenny wasn't listening anymore. From Don't remember, don't remember, the chant in her head had changed to Remember, remember...

Maybe this will help, she told herself rather calmly, and with a feeling of meeting her doom she picked up a leather-bound book on the desk.

It was a journal of sorts. Or at least a record of some kind of experiment. Her grandfather's heavy black writing degenerated into a scrawl in places, but certain sentences stood out clearly as she leafed through.

"... out of all the methods from different cultures this one seems safest... the rune Nyd or Nauthiz provides an eternal constraint, preventing travel in any direction.... The rune must be carved, then stained with blood, and finally charged with power by pronouncing its name aloud...."

Jenny flipped through more pages to a later entry.

"... interesting treatise on the traditional methods of dealing with a djinn, or, as the Hausa call them, the aljunnu. Why anyone should think this could be accomplished with a bottle is beyond me.... I believe the space I've prepared to be just barely sufficient for containing the tremendous energies involved... ."

Good grief, he sounded just like a scientist. A mad scientist, Jenny thought. She flipped more pages.

"... I have achieved the containment at last! I'm very satisfied... foolproof methods... not the slightest danger... the tremendous forces I've harnessed ... all in complete safety. ..."

Toward the end there was something stuck in between the pages like a bookmark. It was a torn sheet of yellowing, brittle paper. It looked very old. The writing on it was quite different from her grandfather's-thin and shaky-and part of it was obscured by rusty-brown stains.

It was a poem. There was no title, but the author's name, Johannes Eckhart, and the date, 1943, were scrawled at the top.

I, slipping on the slime-edged stones, To that dark place by rusty foxfire lit, Where they lie watching, fingering old bones, Go with my question. Deep into the pit Of the Black Forest, where the Erlking rules And truth is told but always at a cost, I take my puzzle. Like the other fools who've slipped on these same stones and played and lost

I come because I must. I have no choice. The Game is timeless and ...

The rest of it was covered with the dark stains, except for the last two lines:

I leave them waiting there below. I hear them laughing as I go.

Jenny leaned back and let out her breath. Obviously this poem had impressed her grandfather enough for him to keep it for forty years. She

knew her grandfather had fought in World War II-he'd been a prisoner in a German POW camp. Maybe he'd met this Johannes Eckhart then. And maybe this Johannes Eckhart had started him thinking. ...

She had all the pieces of the puzzle now. She just didn't want to put them together. All she could think about was taking the next step in the drama she was playing out here.

The final step, she thought.

The ghostly child in the thongs had vanished; the internal movie had stopped running. But Jenny didn't try to get it back. She could feel the irresistible tug of real memory at last, and she knew what she had to do.

She